


11:16

by atheeeeen (etherealtulip)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Major Character Injury, Resurrection, Time Travel Fix-It, TommyInnit Nearly Dies (Video Blogging RPF), Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, dream is a bad person, more like he does and then he doesn't, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:29:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29818092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherealtulip/pseuds/atheeeeen
Summary: "why don't you go see him?"or, 'beat 2 death with clock = time travel?'lowercase intended
Relationships: Wilbut Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 6
Kudos: 79





	11:16

**Author's Note:**

> i've proofread this but i absolutely should not be trusted with that stuff, so feel free to let me know if you see any major mistakes.
> 
> tw // blood mention, injury description. temporary character death, the works. 
> 
> writing style's also a bit confusing since it's really just one train of thought to another. let me know if there's anything you'd like me to explain :)

fingers clawing at the hands painting his throat black and blue, desperate gasps for air, placating whispers grating at his ears.

he is dying, ribs caving inward, wrists snapped outward, blood seeping through his scuffed jeans.

he is dying, staring into lifeless eyes as they burn him to ash.

he is dying alone, alone dying, black and red and yellow creeping at the edges of his vision as he remains trapped at the mercy of the one man he swore to never fall to again.

he could scramble for purchase, could find the strength to push him away and scream for help... 

...or he could let go. let himself go.

he... he wants to _sleep_. after all he's been through, maybe he deserves to rest. maybe he deserves that freedom.

as if in agreement, the pressure around his throat increases for a moment.

and in that one moment, he thinks. he thinks about everything and nothing, family and friends, betrayals and victories and everything in between. he thinks about dying and the pain in his forearms and the pressure on his throat and the last time he saw his brother smile and the last time he heard tubbo's voice and the last time he was _truly happy_.

he closes his eyes and dreams, for that one moment, of a better time.

...

he blinks awake when the hands balance their user, testing his weight before spinning their scuffle around and throwing him towards the lectern in the corner of the room.

he exhales with the collision, air forcibly expelled from his lungs, and he slumps towards the floor. he stares upwards through eyes half-lidded with delirious pain, barely catching the staggering movement of his cellmate from the corner of his fading vision.

between one blink and the next, he finds himself gazing up at a blinking alarm clock-no, dream-no, dream holding a blinking alarm clock.

11:16.

11:16am?

11:16pm?

he blinks with it.

the man in question stands frighteningly above him, pose worthy of an olympic poster, mask adorned with blood splatters, but if he tilts his head a certain way and squints his eyes until he barely sees anything through the fog of pain, he can make out the silhouette of a desperate, deranged man.

he chokes out a laugh, but the noise that leaves him is barely a croak.

"you looking fucking pathetic," he decides half-heartedly, voice barely a whisper as he continues to squint at his murderer-to-be in disdain. his face throbs with the motion.

he receives a reply in the way dream's arms shake with exhaustion as he clings to the alarm clock, struggling to raise it above his head and keep it there.

tommy hums a broken tune, mind floating in his daze and unmoving from his neck-cramping position on the floor. he pauses somewhere in the middle to cough, barely registering the taste of iron on his tongue or the blood flowing freely from his nose before restarting from the beginning of the song.

a senseless tune.

a useless melody.

the perfect theme for a disturbed man.

"... heard there was a special..." he pauses for a moment, trying to get the notes right.

_("...stop.")_

"where men could... go emancipate..."

this would be his final performance, after all.

_("stop.")_

"the brutality... and tyranny of their... rulers"

it would have to be the perfect show.

_("stop it.")_

"well... this... place is real... you needn't... fret."

the perfect tragedy.

_("tommy, stop. stop it.")_

"with wil-" he wheezes suddenly, squeezing his eyes shut as he chokes, pain racing up and down his throat,

_("just, stop.")_

but he continues.

"with wilbur, tommy, tubbo... and eret."

the audience would be devastated by the end of it.

_("... tommy.")_

"it's... a very big and... not blown up..."

go out with a bang.

_("tommy.")_

"l'manberg..."

~~_("my unfinished symphony, forever unfinished!")_ ~~

...

"fucking stop!"

tommy freezes. breathes. relaxes his tense muscles. repeats.

he opens his eyes for the last time, blinks up at dream for the last time, and grins with some effort, for the last time.

"... drop and roll? where's the fire, big man?"

dream shifts forward suddenly, raising the clock further above his head and swinging downwards.

he lets go of it, so tommy lets go too, breathing deeply as he prepares himself to meet his maker.

he ends up hearing it more than feeling it, a sickening thud echoing through his ears, and he sinks further into the floor as he listens to his murderer's harsh breaths.

he is dying, a sickly wetness coating his cheeks.

he is dying, his useless ribs puncturing his insides in retribution for his naivety.

he is dying, alone dying, listening to the chant of his name from the underground and the aboveground and everywhere around him, a sound cone of anger and denial and resignation.

_and so, in the bubble of peace he created for himself after years of hardships and strife, he dies._

* * *

except, no.

no, no, no, no, no, no.

no.

he feels the heat of the sun accompanied by the cool breeze of an autumn afternoon on his face. he hears the wind whistle past him, idle laughter from his left and-

"tommy, we need power."

wilbur.

his mouth opens without his permission, words forcing themselves into the open air.

"oh, yeah?"

wilbur, sunlight shining in his hair and reflecting off the buttons of his uniform, continues.

"i led the-i led the revolution, right, but the issue is, is that i sort of became the de facto president, but no one listens to me. no one cares about mine, or your, power. no one cares!"

he scratches the back of his head distractedly, staring into the distance, his eyes the clearest tommy has seen in... months. maybe even somewhere close to a year.

tommy's body agrees at first, "well, yeah," but stops.

wilbur sends him a curious glance, disturbed from his sightseeing by the abruptness of his silence.

he opens his mouth, strength returning to him, but nothing comes out. he pauses again, almost frantically raking through his brain for his answer from a lifetime ago, but comes up short.

he'll... he'll improvise, he decides, shaking himself from his stupor and attempting to ignore the outlandish situation he managed to find himself in.

even if this was a dream, this is exactly what he's been wishing for. a chance to stop the bad things from happening. a chance to delude himself into believing that everything was okay.

he'd be a _fool_ to ignore it.

"well... we don't... necessarily need to have people listen to us."

wilbur frowns, and tommy hastily continues his train of thought before he can interrupt him.

"i mean, the point of l'manberg was to... free ourselves from our rulers, and i don't see why anyone inside of l'manberg needs to... acknowledge our power, since being _equals_ is all we really need to be peaceful," he turns his head away and grimaces, unconvinced by his own reasoning. when he turns to face wilbur again, however, a contemplative look has replaced the disinterest that resided there moments earlier.

"...go on..." wilbur mutters, 

"we-we could elect an ambassador or a group of people to deal with... international relations, and do something similar with law enforcement, but we don't need to have someone in complete power over the country... elections are unreliable, as technoblade would say."

wilbur hums, seemingly unsatisfied, yet significantly more interested. tommy laughs, disregarding the growing ball of anxiety inside his chest.

"...which means a lower chance of a potential rebellion against us... huh," he mutters aloud, sending tommy a quick glance before tilting his head upwards and closing his eyes.

"it's interesting how you brought up an election, though," tommy pales under the orange light of the sun. wilbur laughs, eyes sliding open, "it's almost like you knew what i was going to say."

tommy grins shakily, forcing a laugh through his clenched teeth and gripping at his coat desperately.

"it's because of our _brotherly bond_. you know you're like a _brother_ to me, right? a _big brother_."

wilbur groans, the tension between them fading as he throws a teasing glare at him.

"don't call me that, i will cry," he grouches, reaching over to ruffle tommy's hair mercilessly. it feels real, so tommy lets it be real, leaning into wilbur's hand before they both pull away, bickering as they make their way back to the safety of l'manberg's walls.

he barely blinks when tubbo barrels into him, beaming and chatting excitedly about something-or-other as they get ready for bed. if tommy stares for a moment too long, or clings on to his arm too tightly, or leaves his side far too reluctantly, he doesn't say anything.

as night approaches and shadows crawl towards the hto dog van, tommy shuffles around in bed and wonders. the roughness of the cheap sheets does little to stifle his sigh of comfort, the phantom neck and back cramps leaving as he settles into a dream, a limbo far too peaceful than what everyone tells him he deserves.

he can only hope that the place he finds himself in tomorrow, wherever it may be, grants him a silver of the same mercy.

he drifts away with the gentle sighs and snores of his companions as his lullaby.

_and so, in the bubble of peace his friends created with their presence after months of blood, sweat and tears shed, he sleeps._

* * *

and, hours later, long after the sun has risen, years after this reality ceased to exist, he awakens to the sound of laughter, and music, and life.

he turns his head, disbelieving, and is met with the blinking lights of an alarm clock.

11:16.

11:16am.

...

_huh?_

**Author's Note:**

> hi! if you're confused, so am i! :)
> 
> i haven't written a fic with such single-minded focus since 2016, which is honestly very terrifying, but i wanted to get this one out since i really need to finish at least a few of my wips. 
> 
> anyway, what the basic idea is, is: tommy gets beat to death with dream's 'do not burn' clock instead of with just his fists, gets sent back in time (because shenanigans) to right before wilbur introduces the idea of an election to him, and doesn't realise that the whole 'back in time' thing actually happened for real until he sees a similar alarm clock that shows the same time when he died (or something). 
> 
> this is a one-shot, since i don't have any plans on committing to a full story (but please still leave comments :pray: i'm desperate).


End file.
